


The World, The Experiment

by practicelosing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7364134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/practicelosing/pseuds/practicelosing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-4x12, more or less ignores Hook. Regina has a lot of feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World, The Experiment

Regina doesn't think much about Emma's promise to help her find the author until later that night, when she's home alone and Henry and Emma have gone back to the Charmings'. Having people on her side still feels risky—and complicated, much more complicated than the days when she simply commanded people to do things and ripped their hearts from their bodies if they didn't comply. Or...before they didn't comply. Those were simpler days, she thinks to herself over a glass of red wine. She tries to muster up some happiness at the way things have been progressing with Mary Margaret, but mostly she just feels tense, wary...and sad. She's sad, she realizes, finding herself staring at nothing. Back in the day, when she felt overwhelmed like this, she would take it out on servants, or furniture, or trees, or...anything, really. She's destroyed a lot of things in her time, trying not to feel sad, or lonely, or scared, or helpless. But she's different now, and that's a good thing, she knows it, even as the sadness threatens to rise up and envelop her.

It's the wine's fault she's this emotional, she thinks, and makes herself swallow the last little bit, stand up, and walk—carefully, steadily—down the hall to the kitchen. Where she finds herself standing at the sink, staring sightlessly down at the stainless steel. She doesn't realize she's crying until there's a knock on the door.

Shame makes her pull herself together, and panic. She pats carefully at her eyes, trying not to disturb her eye makeup, as she makes her way to the door.

Standing there, looking cautious and flushed, is Emma Swan.

Regina is too surprised—too exhausted, honestly, she rarely lets herself get emotional, and for good reason—to make any sarcastic opening, but she's afraid her face is showing off too much of how she feels, so she turns away hastily, gesturing Emma inside.

“What can I do for you, Miss Swan?” she asks, when they're standing in the half-light of the foyer and Emma still hasn't said anything. It's not right, that form of address, they've moved beyond that—they're closer than that, she supposes, but she takes comfort in formality even now that she's not actually a queen anymore. Emma looks a little startled to hear her speak, and Regina winces inwardly at the thought of how rough her voice must sound right now.

“Well, we never really...got that drink, you know, at Granny's...” Emma pauses, looking unsure of herself, and Regina's formulating a “thanks, but I'm fine” when Emma continues, “I know things sort of took a turn for the better after Henry...but I thought you might still want someone to talk to, 'cause, you know, you've been through some shit, and maybe having a happy ending doesn't automatically...make that all better, you know?” She's looking into Regina's eyes searchingly; her words sound like they take a lot of effort, as they often do. “I dunno, it's just...I thought maybe it would be nice...” and she looks away, a loss of eye contact that Regina experiences like a physical blow. “I mean, I know it's late, and you're probably super tired, and maybe you don't even want to talk to me anyway.” But she doesn't turn to leave, just smiles tentatively, like she's offering herself up to Regina, like the decision is Regina's to make, and she has time to make it. Regina feels her pulse beating harder and puts it down to the wine, but the speed, the desperation with which she decides startles even her:

“Yes. I'd like that.”

She can't look at Emma in case she looks disappointed.

“Cool...so, what are you drinking?” Emma's smiling when she looks up. Apparently genuinely, but Regina can't let herself believe that in case she's wrong.

“I can get you a glass of red wine if you want—is Cabernet Sauvignon okay?”

“You know me, Regina, the only wine I buy for myself comes in a box. Anything you have will be just fine.” She's still smiling that tiny smile; Regina must be doing something wrong. She tries to keep her shoulders from creeping up anxiously as she leads Emma to the kitchen, forces herself to remember her childhood lessons in posture and bearing.

They sit on stools at the island, Emma with her hand curled around her glass, Regina trying very hard not to dig her nails into her own hand—she's had enough wine for tonight, she tells herself firmly, though she wants nothing more than to quiet the voices that are whispering questions about why Emma's _really_ here, that scream that nobody in their right mind would visit Regina just to talk.

She smiles tightly at Emma, who smiles back a bit too knowingly for Regina's comfort.

It's quieter than the vault in the kitchen.

Granted, there are quite a lot of hearts in the vault.

Which only reminds her of her own heart, which is beating strangely fast. Emma sips her wine quietly, her elbows on the island, her eyes downcast, her hair tucked over her shoulder in a perfectly casual disheveled pile. Regina finds she has a hard time looking away from it, actually. She wonders absently what it smells like up close, if it's as soft as it looks, if it's warm from Emma's body heat...she swallows and looks away.

“So,” Emma says finally, with a smile in her voice, a smile that Regina sees—when she looks up—is both awkward and sympathetic, “how's it going, Regina?”

She uses Regina's name more than anyone else in town. Regina doesn't let herself think about that.

“I'm fine,” she lies.

She's not fine. Obviously. It's partly Robin Hood, but mostly it's just the exhaustion of having to learn, after all these years, how to be a person around other people, around people she...cares about. Learning how to care about people. It's exhausting and terrifying, and she's not sure she's capable of talking to Emma about it, but when she looks up Emma is just waiting, her eyes on Regina, looking...sympathetic. Like she cares. Nobody's looked at Regina like that, like they wanted to take care of her, in a very long time. Or if they have, she threw a fireball at them, because it was too much. But she knows Emma, she's done magic with Emma, she's seen Emma listen to Henry, so she tries to believe that it would be okay to tell Emma just a little bit about how “it” is going. “It's just….” she pauses so long they could listen to an entire aria in the silence. “I'm tired, Emma. Not because it's late,” she adds hastily, as Emma stirs slightly. “It's so hard, trying to do the right thing, all the time? And...working with...Mary Margaret. No offense,” but Emma is smiling like she knows what Regina means. “I mean, with everyone. It's not something I have a lot of practice with, you know? I'm not….good at it.” Her voice cracks. Emma can definitely tell it's not just “working with people” that's hard, Emma definitely knows what an awful person Regina is, but she just waits, her hands quiet on the countertop—Regina takes a moment to appreciate how unusual that is, for Emma Swan to be still, and quiet. It makes her a little dizzy to think that Emma's doing that for her, but she takes a deep breath and steadies herself. “I haven't had...a friend…in...a really long time.” The room is quiet, quiet. “I'm not sure...I'm capable. Of friendship. Or...being a good person.”

Emma reaches out for her hand.

Regina just barely stops herself from flinching away. Instead she lets herself appreciate the heat of Emma's hand against hers.

“Regina, I...I know it's complicated, but, like...it makes sense that you're overwhelmed. Those things, being a good friend, or a good person, they're hard for everyone. Some people act like it's easy,” and Regina thinks she's not alone when she pictures Mary Margaret's smiling, peaceful, supercilious face, “but it's really _hard_. And painful. Good a lot of the time, but...” she nods. “Hard. But it's not like you have to do it alone,” she smiles a little bit, squeezes Regina's hand. Leans in, like she's hoping Regina will really hear her. “It takes two people to build a friendship, you know?” Regina smiles as best she can but she can't stop a tear from sliding down her face. “Hey, no, that was supposed to be a pep talk!” Emma leans still farther forward, wipes Regina's tear, takes her other hand. “I wasn't trying to make you _cry_!” Which of course makes Regina cry more, even as she smiles at Emma. “I...think I know what it's like, though. Sometimes when you're feeling that bad...sympathy just makes things harder.” And it does, thinks Regina, determinedly pushing back the tears that are threatening to overwhelm her. “But I'm here, you know? If you need to cry.” Which Regina does.

After a second she pulls her hands out of Emma's to cover her face. A minute later she hears soft footsteps on the tile, then feels Emma's hand on her shoulder. A minute after that, she lets herself lean into Emma's side, lets Emma put her arm around her, awkwardly, since Regina's still sitting and Emma's standing, and cries into the soft sweater Emma's wearing.

They sit/stand like that for probably five minutes and then Regina takes a breath and pulls herself together. Wipes her face with her hands, makeup be damned. Emma pulls away, looks at her face. “Can I?” When Regina nods, she takes the cuff of her cotton t-shirt and delicately wipes away the worst of the mascara tears. “Do you wanna go somewhere more comfortable? Or, like, do you want to be alone…?” She doesn't want to be alone. She takes Emma's hand—she's pretty sure her voice isn't working right now—and leads her into the living room. They settle on opposite ends of the couch, Emma looking a little awkward. Regina pushes her hair behind her ears, unsure of what to do next.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Regina can't even look at Emma, she's being too nice to her, Regina's embarrassing herself, she's ruining everything, Emma will never want to talk to her or work with her or _look_ at her again—Regina feels an unexpected stab at the thought of never feeling Emma's eyes on her again, but she pushes it away for the moment.

“Not really,” she croaks. “Not right now.”

“Okay. Do you want to...talk about something else? Watch some TV? Play a card game?” Regina looks up in disbelief at that one; Emma's smiling and looking like she has nothing else in the world to do, no family waiting for her (which, it occurs to Regina, maybe she doesn't—they might well be asleep, or giving Neal a bath, or something asinine like that). “What TV shows do you even watch, Regina?” She chuckles a little, to herself.

“Um...” the question catches her off guard. “I don't, really...but we can watch something if you want to?” She takes the remote from the drawer it's in and passes it to Emma, who turns the TV on and flicks through channels like someone who grew up with...oh. Right.

They end up watching what Emma tells her is a “sitcom,” about police officers in New York City. Regina doesn't really get it, most of the jokes go over her head, but Emma seems to find it funny, and she finds it oddly comforting, watching Emma laugh and occasionally turn to her to explain a joke, or, once, to collapse on the couch between them giggling at a particularly funny line, her head nearly touching Regina's thigh. Regina's not sure what it is—or, she is sure, it's weakness, it's failure—that makes her touch Emma's hair as delicately as she can manage—and sure enough, it's as soft as she thought it would be, which sends a pang she really can't explain through her heart.

She had been sure she'd calibrated her touch right, that Emma wouldn't feel her hand, but it seems she was wrong, because Emma gradually stops giggling, turns her head to meet Regina's eyes. What she sees there makes her sit up, pushing her hair out of her face, still half-smiling, and edge a little closer to Regina. “Regina? Do you...do you want to... _cuddle_?” She looks like she regrets saying it, and Regina can't blame her—if she were still the Evil Queen Emma would be a charred spot on the rug for even suggesting that, but then if she were still the Evil Queen Emma wouldn't be here in the first place—and neither would she—but she finds that she does want that, even if it's a mistake, even if she hates herself for it later, so she makes herself nod and tries to keep from looking too needy. “Come here.” Emma raises her arm, smiling at her, and she lets herself settle back against her shoulder. There's another ten minutes of the episode but Emma is unusually quiet; Regina thinks, and then makes herself take it back, that it's because she messed up terribly. _She hates being around you_ , whispers the little voice at the back of her mind, but just then Emma casually, almost absent-mindedly, rubs her hand up and down Regina's arm, pulls her in a little closer, yawns—Regina can _hear_ it, the air leaving her lungs, her heartbeat settling down afterwards—repositions herself so she's leaning back into the cushions at a more relaxed angle.

Regina can't quite believe Emma might actually be _comfortable,_ might be happy, but it's been a long day, and Emma is very warm, and despite herself she slips into a doze.

She dreams that her mother is there, looking sneeringly around the living room and then staring at Regina in disgust. “You were meant for more,” she says sharply, and Regina tries to turn away from her but can't. “But you gave it up, you little idiot. You had _power_ and you _gave it up_ , and now you're going to get hurt.” Cora Mills turns on her heel and walks away without a backward glance. The room is cold without her eyes burning into Regina. Regina wakes up gasping and panicking.

“Regina!” It's Emma's voice, not Cora's, full of genuine concern, a little raspy, as if she too had fallen asleep. The TV is on mute but the lights are still on. “Regina, it's okay! I'm here! It was just a dream.” Regina's heart is pounding and her hands are clenched. Emma touches her shoulder tentatively, and Regina jerks a little but lets her stroke her arm slowly and carefully. For a minute. And then it's too much, and she sits upright, knocking Emma's hand aside. Emma still doesn't say anything.

“And why are you here, Miss Swan?” She's pleased to hear that her voice is steadier than it has any right to be. “What's your purpose?” Prickliness comes easy to her, but for the first time she feels a twinge of regret that she's so adept at distancing herself from other people. She tamps it down, straightens her sweater, puts on her best Evil Queen face. “I don't need more people feeling sorry for me.”

“No, Regina, I know, I don't want you to think that--” Emma looks panicked, her hands twisted together in her lap. She bites her lip, takes a breath. “I don't feel sorry for you, but I get why you would think that. I just...that's what friends do for each other, you know? They're there for each other when things get hard. And I'm your friend, remember? Or...I want to be.” Her expression is so serious that Regina finds herself melting a little bit.

“I don't know, actually,” she lets herself say, with a stiff laugh. “I…haven't had many friends.” Emma smiles awkwardly. “But...I guess...I'd like to try. To be friends with you. Emma.” Emma smiles, wide and genuine.

“I'd like that.” Her voice is soft, and Regina—again—doesn't let herself think about the swooping sensation she gets in her stomach at the sound. “So. How can I support you right now, friend?” It's soppy and Regina rolls her eyes, which admittedly are getting a little watery.

“You can...” she pauses for a minute, looks at Emma. Her face, the curve of her cheekbone, her smile. Her disheveled hair. She needs some time to think about this. “Go home. For now,” she says in what she hopes is a mock-commanding tone and not just a needy one. “Would you come over tomorrow?”

“Sure, I got nothing to do, now that the Snow Queen is gone,” Emma laughs at the idea that there would ever be nothing to do in Storybrooke, but warmly, like she's just teasing and she definitely will be back. “So I'll see you tomorrow evening, then.” She laughs awkwardly. “I mean, I'm sure I'll see you before that, it sounds like Henry wants to do some more exploring—sorry, I mean investigating—at that house, but I can come over in the evening.” She glances at Regina. “Does that work for you?”

“That's perfect,” Regina smiles, and tries not to think about exactly how perfect it does sound. Instead, she pushes herself up from the couch, offers Emma a hand. “Until then, Miss Swan.”

 *********************

She falls asleep unusually easily that night, thinking about Emma—she does smell good, Regina was right about that too—and the warmth of her arm around her. Almost allowing herself to hope that it might happen again tomorrow. Pushing aside the voice that asks exactly what is the nature of her interest in Miss Swan.

Emma's right, they do spend a good part of the morning together, working with Henry to follow the clues to the author, but they split up for the afternoon, Regina going to her vault to research a couple things that had occurred to her during their investigation of the house. Working with Henry and Emma she had allowed herself to feel optimistic, purposeful, but as she drops the last book onto the “unhelpful” pile she has to admit her optimism is flagging. The written word and the ways it could be turned to a magician's purpose have never been her main strength— _just another failure,_ hisses the voice at the back of her mind, but Regina makes herself push herself up off the stone bench and extinguish the candles and climb the stairs back to daylight, picturing Emma's face last night as she listened to Regina stumble over her words. That face didn't say failure, that face said friend.

Regina hopes Emma will show up again tonight.

She eats alone, again, a more substantive meal this time than red wine, and finds it strangely hard to avoid watching the clock, waiting for Emma's knock. Thinking about Emma's face when she laughed, the feel of Emma's hair under her hand...she finds herself standing at the sink with her dinner dishes half-washed, hands limp before her, imagining how it would feel to run her fingers through Emma's hair, imagining Emma's breath catching...she flushes, ashamed and angry with herself. How pathetic is it, to be lusting over the first person to be properly supportive in years? Because it's time to admit that this is what that is. Emma is just being a friend, she said it herself; Emma doesn't want Regina that way. Regina is repeating this to herself, firmly, in her head, when Emma knocks on the door.

Her face lights up when she sees Regina, like maybe she'd been worried Regina wouldn't answer. Regina tries not to think about what that means.

She tries not to think about how much better she feels now that Emma's here.

Or about how she had been feeling before.

They go straight to the living room this time. Emma is telling her about how Mary Margaret burned the pasta because Neal was being distracting at the wrong time—“I didn't even know it was _possible_ to burn pasta, and I'm not, like, a great cook...”—Emma laughs self-deprecatingly. “She spends so much time with him, she's, like, obsessed with him, she can't even spend seven minutes on the pasta?” Regina thinks she sees a shadow cross Emma's face.

“That can't be easy,” she offers up tentatively, “having your parents be so devoted to your brother when you were...” abandoned, she doesn't say, and feels a pang of sympathy for Emma. They've both been abandoned, in different ways; Regina's not sure which of them was worse off. Then she remembers that Emma was abandoned partly—mostly—because of her, and looks away. But Emma doesn't seem to be thinking about that.

“It's….a little weird, yeah,” she says quietly. “I'm dealing with it, I guess.”

Regina waits. “Still.” She knows all too well that “dealing with it” can easily mean “pushing it down because it's too hard to think about and there's a million crises to deal with.” She takes a seat on the couch, pats the cushion next to her, blushes when Emma gives her a look that's a little too shrewd for comfort before sitting down so close that their thighs are almost—not quite—touching. “Does it ever seem unfair to you, how some people just have things...given to them, and you have to work so hard for them?”

“Yeah.” Emma's quiet for a while. “I mean, I know it's not fair...but it's still hard to see Neal get all that attention, and…and love, when I was so lonely for so long.” She turns to look at Regina. “Like, no matter why they did it, it doesn't change the fact that it really hurt to be...abandoned like that. I get it, but...” she shakes her head.

“It doesn't change the fact that you lived your whole life without their love,” Regina supplies, surprising herself and, apparently, Emma. “I know what you mean.”

“Yeah,” says Emma. “I guess you do.” They look at each other for a minute before Regina has to look away. “So much for psychoanalysis,” Emma says, and Regina can tell she's trying to joke, so she laughs. “Let's talk about something less...complicated?”

And they chat, for nearly an hour, about ordinary things, what Ruby's up to, the dwarves' latest drama, and it's nice, having someone there, being around someone in a way that isn't tense or difficult, in a way that makes Regina feel like she could _do_ this, she could be...friends with someone.

But after a while there's a lull in the conversation, which has turned to whether they should be worried about how many comic books Henry's been reading—“I mean, honestly, Regina, can they be any weirder than our actual lives?” “But the plots are so...” she wrinkles her nose, “stupid.” “Haven't you been saying that the plot of the book about our actual lives is stupid for months?” and she has to concede the point—and Emma's expression turns serious. She looks down at her lap. Regina waits, a bubble of worry rising up from her stomach.

“Regina...” Emma pauses for so long Regina almost has a heart attack. “This might be completely the wrong thing to say; I get that things have been really stressful for--” she grimaces, “a long time...and I don't want to mess things up because I genuinely do care about you,” Regina looks away, “and I want to be your friend but...” she pauses again, and Regina is sure that something terrible is going to happen, that Emma is going to say she can't be Regina's friend after all, because Regina is a terrible person, will always be a terrible person, no matter how hard she tries. But then Emma gathers herself, lets out a breath, and turns to Regina. “But I've always wondered...if maybe me and you...if we couldn't be….something else too.” Regina can't look away. “Like I said, I don't want to mess things up, we don't need to—I don't need to go there, if you don't….if you don't want to, which I would understand, I'm such a mess….” she trails off, looking at her own hands. Without thinking about it, Regina reaches out and takes her hands in her own; Emma looks cautious, but Regina feels giddy.

“I think….that I would like to try,” she says, so nervous it feels like her head might float away, but the smile on Emma's face is worth it. “Miss Swan, may I kiss you?”

Emma laughs a little at that, but it's a relieved laugh, and she leans forward and takes Regina's face in her hands, looking at her like she's worried she'll disappear. “Of course, Madame Mayor.” And then she kisses her.

It's nice, Emma feels nice, her lips are softer than any man's she's kissed. She's not sure what to do with her hands but she feels the need to touch Emma so she slips them into Emma's hair, tentatively at first but then Emma hums against her mouth and she moves them until she's cradling Emma's head more securely. With her hands there and Emma's hands now on her shoulders, she feels less panicky than she has in a long time. She trusts Emma, she realizes; for all the time they've spent fighting she's also seen how hard Emma is willing to try at things she cares about. Her thoughts drift to what that might look like in this context, and she feels a pang of arousal so acute it's almost painful. She reaches back to pull one of Emma's hands down to her hip; Emma pulls her closer, so that she's almost on her lap. Actually, that's a good idea. She pulls away in order to reposition herself.

Emma's always been beautiful, Regina's always registered that at the same time she was trying to kill her or trying to keep herself from killing her when they were supposed to be working together, but right now her expression is one of soft wonder and it takes Regina's breath away, how beautiful she looks and how turned on that expression gets her. Their next kiss is less soft and more desperate, Emma's hands wandering down onto her ass, and Regina moans into Emma's mouth.

This time it's Emma who pulls away, looking flustered but also serious. “Regina...” she touches Regina's face lightly, like she's incredibly precious. “You're sure you want this? Now? You're not just….looking for a distraction?” Regina takes a minute to consider.

“No, I want this.” And Emma, thank goodness, doesn't bring up any other objections, she just pulls Regina closer, closer until they're pressed together. Turns them—somewhat awkwardly, and Regina eventually asks, laughingly, why, if both of them are so powerful, they don't just magic themselves into a more suitable position, but really, she knows the answer: closeness is what they want, not speed—until Regina's lying on her back underneath Emma, which leaves her breathless in more ways than one.

Leaves a trail of kisses down Regina's neck to her collarbone and pauses at the first button on her shirt.

Emma's face over her is flushed and smiling but still somehow tentative, and Regina is feeling warm and powerful and secure so she reaches up to undo her own buttons and pull Emma's hand inside her shirt, which is, oh, very rewarding, both for the expression it inspires and the feeling of Emma's hand on her breast. “That's nice,” she whispers, a little absently, and Emma laughs at her.

“How do you think I feel?”

“Let's find out.” Emma sticks her tongue out at Regina at that and Regina has to laugh—honestly, what a ridiculous custom.Emmahas to sit back to pull her sweater over her head, and then her shirt, and then her camisole—“How many layers are you wearing, Emma?” “Shut up!”—and then finally, teasingly, her eyes locked with Regina's, who is finding herself incapable of doing anything other than looking at the way Emma moves and the skin she's revealing as each layer comes off, she takes off her bra. They are pressed together skin to skin, just kissing, for a while, and Regina savors Emma's warmth and presence and the tiny noises she makes as they kiss, but she has an agenda now.

“Emma...” Emma pulls back, waiting for her to continue, playing with Regina's hair a little bit. “I want you to...” she's not sure how to say what she wants without making it an order or a sarcastic jab; honestly, it's a miracle she's made it this far. Luckily for her, Emma catches on quickly.

“You want me to fuck you?” She says it with a laugh in her voice, but her eyes darken and her breathing speeds up, and her hand moves from Regina's hair to her face.

“Yes.” She can't speak any louder than a whisper, she wants it so much and she's—still—so nervous that Emma will realize this was all a mistake, that she'll leave and Regina will be alone again, cursing herself for making an effort. But Emma doesn't leave, she kisses Regina and then she gets up on her knees and surveys the situation.

“Let's get you out of these pants.” Part of Regina wants to see what they'll figure out together but part of her is still not sure she's ready for the indignity of struggling with a bunch of fabric in front of a woman she really, honestly, likes more and more every day, so she waves her hand and the pants are gone. “Hey, no fair!” Emma protests, but Regina can tell her heart's not really in it; her eyes, gratifyingly, seem to be caught on the underwear Regina's wearing, which is black and just a _little_ bit lacy.

“My eyes are up here, Miss Swan,” she says as icily as she can, which is not very icy, not anymore, not now that she has this warm feeling in her stomach and her crotch. Emma glances up at her, almost laughing, but then she's repositioning herself so that she's hovering over Regina again with one hand holding herself up and the other hand lightly, tantalizingly on Regina's thigh. She's not laughing, she's looking into Regina's eyes like she never wants to stop looking, like she wants to hold onto this moment forever. Regina swallows and looks away. “Please,” she whispers. Emma's fingers caress her through the fabric of her underwear, finding the right angle and location, and she breathes out shakily as Emma, finding her rhythm, presses against her more confidently. “That's—Emma, don't stop,” but Emma is just pausing to work Regina's underwear off (Regina considers lending a magical hand but honestly she's feeling a little overwhelmed and it's not bad to have a minute to collect herself) and it's not long until her fingers are tracing over Regina's cunt, slipping inside her, pressing against her clit, sending jolts of pleasure up Regina's belly. She reaches up and pulls Emma down until they're kissing, until she has to pull away to gasp for breath because Emma has her so close to the edge, and Emma is murmuring against her ear—“Regina, Regina, you're amazing, you look so amazing right now, it makes me so wet to see you like this, Regina”—and on and on until Regina is shaking and gasping and clenching against Emma's hand, until finally she collapses back loose and warm, Emma's hand still against her cunt.

“How was that?” Emma asks teasingly after a minute. She's wedged between Regina and the back of the couch, half on top of Regina, who doesn't have it in her to complain right now.

“Emma, that was—amazing, thank you.”

She blushes a little at how awkward she sounds, but Emma is apparently genuine when she says, “No, thank _you_ , Madame Mayor.” She sits up, pulls her hair back, fastens it with a hair tie, pulls a shirt on. Watches as Regina pulls herself back up to a sitting position, gropes around for her underwear, runs her hands through her own hair, attempts to center herself and more or less succeeds. “So….what now?” Regina pauses, looks over at Emma.

“Can we...cuddle, for a while?” She blushes to hear herself say it, but Emma doesn't seem to find it a ridiculous request, and rearranges herself so that Regina can tuck herself under Emma's arm again. They sit in silence for a few minutes.

“I think this proves my point. That I'm not good at friendship,” Regina says eventually. She is half joking, but the other part is sure, as it always is, that she's messed things up again, that she wants too much and doesn't deserve to get it. She is struck by a bolt of remorse for...what? For _making_ Emma come back? For _making_ her go farther than she wanted to? Regina closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing, trying to remind herself that she didn't _make_ Emma do anything, that _Emma_ was the one who suggested they take things in a different direction. She is interrupted by Emma's disbelieving laugh.

“Wait, what? No, Regina, you're _fine_ at friendship! I mean, you're great—I mean—” she pauses for a moment, and Regina has to force herself not to turn to look at her face, decipher what she's trying to say before she says it. “This doesn't mean we're not friends, it's just….more. Different. It's just….nice.”

Regina finds she can't argue with that, not with Emma's ponytail tickling her neck and Emma's arm strong and sure around her shoulder. “We'll see where it goes, but...we're in this together, Regina.” And she kisses the top of Regina's head.

Together. Regina blinks back a tear at the thought that Emma will be back again, later, to work with her and talk to her about hard things and mundane things, and to hold her and, hopefully, to fuck her. She's too choked up to speak, probably, so she reaches for Emma's other hand, the one that isn't resting comfortably on her arm, and kisses it.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Louise Gluck, "The Ripe Peach."


End file.
